Sawyer, Meryl (23 page)

Mitch leaned against the wall of the old-fashioned wood telephone
booth outside the Sacramento courtroom and called Paul. Honest to God, most of
the time he hated being a lawyer. Take this case—pleeeze somebody take this
case. Talk about boring. Talk about needless delays.

Typical, though. A white collar crime that called for high-priced
lawyers in a legal face-off. Armadas of expert witnesses were set to testify
for each side.

He had struggled to keep his mind on the case, but odd things
triggered images of Royce. The gleam of the bailiff's holstered gun reminded
Mitch of the shimmery dress Royce had worn the night of the auction. His hand
down her back stroking her soft skin. Christ, he could get an erection just
thinking about her.

Where was she now? He'd been tempted to call her last night, but
resisted. He wanted her to get accustomed to being in his house. Being with
him. Mitch conceded he should move Royce out of his home before someone found
out and accused him of conflict of interest. But he couldn't.

Was he crazy? Damn straight. Who could blame him? Craziness ran in
his family. That was a fact. Even so, he'd worked hard to maintain a sterling
reputation in a profession famous for sleaze-balls. But he was crazy—too crazy
about Royce to let her go.

The phone in Mitch's hand rang until Paul's secretary answered and
put him through. "Hey, Mitch, how's it going?"

"Same old crap. It looks like a short trial, though. I shouldn't
be here long. How's Royce's case coming?"

Mitch listened while Paul told him about interviewing Shaun.
"Royce didn't know Shaun had asked Wally for money the night of the
auction."

"True," Paul agreed. "I checked with Wally. Christ,
is he ever touchy about Shaun, but Wally did say he'd never mentioned it to
Royce. He refused to make the loan because he was sick of Shaun's wild
schemes."

"Is Shaun crazy enough to try to get rid of Royce?"

"Nah. Shaun is hot and heavy with someone else—someone very rich.
Looks like a dead end."

"How's Royce doing?" Mitch hoped he sounded casual.

"I have her checking on Farenholt, Weintraub and Gilbert's
phone records. I doubt if we'll find anything at the law firm, but who knows? I've
been taking a closer look at the Farenholts' finances. Eleanor doles out money
to Brent and Ward—a dollar at a time. They have to go to her several times each
month."

Brent was a wuss, a mama's boy. It gave Mitch a perverse sense of
satisfaction to know how much money he'd made— on his own. When his clients
could afford it, he charged outrageous fees. If he liked a case, and a client
couldn't afford him, Mitch waived the fee. No matter. He'd still gotten
rich—all by himself.

"Caroline is coming into an enormous trust next year. If I
were Brent, I'd marry her for her money and get away from Eleanor." Paul
laughed. "Still no leads on that informant, Linda Allen, but I'm working
on it just as hard as Royce is working on your computer."

Mitch tried to envision Royce at his computer, spending every day
in his home, but he couldn't. He liked the idea, though. Hell, he loved it. She
belonged with him and by the time he got her off, she'd understand that the
past was behind them. He'd been wrong to prosecute her father, but she'd
forgive him once she'd been acquitted.

Paul announced, "I've hired Valerie Thompson in the credit
card fraud department."

It took a second for the name to register. Oh, yeah, Royce's
friend. "You what? She's a suspect."

"She's in a totally different department. Val doesn't have
access to computer codes. She can't possibly find out anything about this case.
Besides, I need competent help in that section. It's the fastest-growing
segment of my company."

Paul let out an audible sigh. One hurdle over. Mitch was pissed,
but he accepted Paul's authority. The one friendship Paul valued most was
Mitch's, not because it was the hardest won or the longest in duration, but
because when Paul needed Mitch, he'd been there.

He'd quit the force and his marriage—already in trouble —had
failed. All he had was a friend. Not that Mitch was the sentimental
I'm-your-buddy type. No way. Mitch had kicked butt, saying: "Know where
you can find sympathy? It's in the dictionary between
shit
and
syphilis.
Now get off your ass and go for that PI firm you've been yacking
about."

Paul had taken Mitch's advice. And the result? A lucrative
private-investigation firm unrivaled in the country. Mitch had believed in him
when he hadn't had faith in himself. It took a lot of nerve to cross Mitch. But
Val was worth it. Paul believed in her as much as Mitch had believed in him.

Paul's secretary announced Valerie Thompson. He heard her come in,
his stomach clenching. She must know he wasn't a lowly detective or she
couldn't have found his office.

Val walked with the quick, graceful stride he found so alluring.
She halted in front of his desk, her dark eyes serious. "Why didn't you
tell me you owned Intel Corp?"

He came around the desk to stand beside her. "I was testing
you," he admitted sheepishly. "I've met too many women who come on to
me because they think I'm rich or powerful."

She gazed at him with the most serious eyes he'd ever seen.
"I had plenty of money when I was married. In the end it won't make you
happy." She leveled an even more intent look at him. "The only thing
that matters is how we are together."

He had the uncomfortable feeling she meant sex. They talked, sure,
a lot, but Val needed constant physical contact. She wanted to cuddle and make
love twice a night—at least.

"Why did you offer me a job?" she asked.

"You're too talented to waste time inspecting rest rooms in
fast food dives. And I don't want you out at night. It's dangerous."

Her bottom lip dropped and she stared at him for a moment. Then
she moved closer, a smile on her face. He was half sitting on the desk now, one
hip resting on the top. She touched his knee and bent forward to kiss his
cheek.

"Oh, Paul, that's the sweetest thing anyone ever said."
Her hand traced its way up his inner thigh. "No man ever cared about me.
Ever."

Her hand reached his crotch the same time as his jaw fell open.
She kissed him, a long, lingering open-mouthed kiss, while her small hand
cradled his shaft. She squeezed gently as her tongue plied his, stroking, until
he gasped.

Royce had already been in Mitch's office fifteen hours when the
phone attached to the answering machine rang. Mitch seldom received messages on
his private line. Since she'd been using the computer the only message that had
come in had been from some kid named Jason. She was curious about this call
because it was so late at night.

She heard Mitch say, "Pork chop, if you're there—"

She grabbed the receiver. "Mitch, you creep. I'm not a pork
chop. I'll have you know I've lost four pounds."

He laughed and she had to remind herself that fate, not choice,
had thrown her together with this man. A surge of the old anger swept through
her—thank heavens—she didn't want to soften toward him. It was too dangerous.
Despite her wariness his laughter rang in her ears, bringing with it the
comfort of human contact. The days were unbearably long. And lonely.

"I put Oliver on a diet too. He's the fattest cat I've ever
seen. I figured if I had to suffer, so should he."

"Aw, Christ, you didn't." Mitch laughed again.
"Ollie gets pissed and kicks gravel from his litter box to kingdom come if
he's hungry."

Royce stifled a giggle, remembering finding the near-empty litter
box. "He already did."

"Next he'll steal Jenny's food."

"He tried, but I stood beside her with a broom while she
ate."

"Give Ollie a break. The vet cut off his balls. All he has to
enjoy in life is food." Mitch said, his tone teasing. "Did I mention
I'm gaining weight? Right now I'm lying on my bed pinching my spare tire."

Usually a witty comeback would have sprung to her lips. Instead
she saw a mental image of Mitch stretched out across a bed. The telephone was
cradled against his right ear, his good ear, and his lips... his lips were
close to the receiver. His hand was toying with the phone cord, long tapered
fingers twining through the coils. The same fingers that had covertly dipped
down the back of her dress. She shifted in her seat, aware of a subtle,
unwilling change in her body.

Why had he used a phony birth certificate? she asked herself,
trying to recapture the suspicious feeling she'd had earlier, trying to escape Mitch's
sensual lure. Her intuition told her there was probably a reasonable
explanation. After all, back then he'd been a boy. It had nothing to do with
the present.

"Still there?" Mitch asked, a husky pitch to his voice.

"Yes. I was just wondering if it's all right to take Jenny
for a walk at night. I'll wear a wig."

"Sure. Stay in the neighborhood where it's safe. Starting
next Monday you'll be spending the afternoons at the office. We'll be prepping
you to go on the witness stand using a videotape. That way you can see what you
look like, and you'll be prepared for the prosecution's cut throat
questioning."

Royce shuddered, imagining Abigail Carnivali questioning her. It
had been frightening enough at the preliminary hearing when Carnivorous
convinced the court to try Royce on one count of grand theft and three
narcotics violations that carried mandatory sentences if she were found guilty.
The prelim had come just four days after her bail hearing before Judge Sidle.
Abigail had been so convincing that Royce had almost believed she had committed
the crimes.

"Will you be here to help?"

"No. This trial won't go to the jury for several days. Just
remember to look directly at the camera while you're practicing. At the trial
look right at the jury. Have they shown you the tape of the William Kennedy
Smith rape trial yet?"

"I have it, but I haven't watched it yet."

"Do it before Monday. Notice how Smith didn't let the
prosecution rattle him. Then read the report on Kim Basinger's breach of
contract trial. Jurors said she didn't seem sure of herself and she kept
looking down. It cost her almost ten million dollars."

She closed her eyes, dreading the trial and frightened that the
investigation hadn't turned up any solid leads. "I'd rather give up ten
million than ten years of my life."

The next day Royce walked up the path to her house with Paul
Talbott. Ahead she saw the boards nailed over the front door—what there was
left of it—and the yards of black and yellow crime scene tape. Even at this
distance she saw her father's beautiful stained-glass door was damaged beyond
repair.

"Wait till you see the inside."

Paul was right; the interior looked like the aftermath of a
tornado: every drawer emptied, every book tossed on the floor. Staffing ripped
out of the furniture.

"Why?" she gasped.

"They were looking for drugs and an address book with the
names of your clients, your connections."

"Where's my computer?"

"The police are examining it." He withdrew a huge
computer printout from his briefcase. "It's listed here along with several
other items."

"Why?" She looked around at the attic room that had been
her father's office, the room where he'd shot himself, the room she'd so
carefully restored and made into her own office when she'd returned from Italy.

"The police figure you have records in your computer."

"Great. What next?"

"I'll get a crew in here to straighten things."

"No. That'll be expensive." She pointed to the daybed in
the corner that was no more than a pile of ticking peeking out from beneath
shredded chintz. "I'll order a new mattress and sleep here in the attic. I
can straighten the house a little at a time between breaks from the
computer."

"Aren't you forgetting something? The computer's at Mitch's.
Anyway, you'll have to ask Mitch to let you come home."

"He won't mind. The media has forgotten me. I've had my
fifteen minutes of fame."

Royce returned to the apartment with Paul, determined to take up
the matter with Mitch. Late every night he called, and she waited until
"Are you there, pork chop?" came through the answering machine. Pork
chop, really. Just wait until he saw her. Now she'd lost five pounds thanks to
a liquid diet that tasted like chocolate sawdust in nonfat milk.